


Observed

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Awkward Romance, Board Games, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6317977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But today every time Isumi looks up Waya’s gazing back at him, blinking more focus at him than at the board, and every time Isumi drops his chin in a rush of nervous adrenaline before he can think better of it or modulate his reaction into something less awkwardly self-conscious." Waya watches Isumi and Isumi doesn't know how to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observed

Waya’s been staring at Isumi.

Isumi knows this because he _hasn’t_ been staring at Waya. Usually practice Go matches are a perfect opportunity for him to capitulate to the constant temptation to watch the flicker of emotion across Waya’s face: the tension in his forehead when he’s considering a move and the frown at his lips when he can’t see a good one, the catch of a smile when inspiration strikes or the bright-eyed delight in the middle of a heated competition. It’s a guilty pleasure, Isumi knows, but it’s one he can’t resist indulging in whenever he gets the chance, and as a general rule he can take advantage of Waya’s attention to the game to get away with it for minutes at a time without being seen. But today every time he looks up Waya’s gazing back at him, blinking more focus at him than at the board, and every time Isumi drops his chin in a rush of nervous adrenaline before he can think better of it or modulate his reaction into something less awkwardly self-conscious. It’s affecting his play, too; he can’t keep his mind on the game with the heat of Waya’s attention fixed on him, and even if Waya’s moves are less well-studied than they usually are it’s Isumi’s that suffer the more for his inattention to the game. His victory is the default state for most of their matches; if Waya wins, as he does with some regularity, it’s still an upset from the usual. But today Isumi is behind before they even make it to the midgame, and despite his best attempts to struggle back to victory he finds himself pinned down by the dark pattern of Waya’s pieces beyond his own ability to escape. He takes longer to consider each move as his situation becomes worse, searches harder for an alternate route than the only one available to him, and finally, after gazing at the goban for a span of minutes while Waya’s eyes linger on him, Isumi ducks his head into capitulation and says “I resign” with his voice strained more on self-consciousness than on disappointment.

“Right,” Waya says, but he doesn’t lift his hands to clear the board. When Isumi risks a glance up Waya’s still gazing at him, his mouth soft and forehead creased like he’s considering the complexities of the game instead of the relatively boring lines of Isumi’s face. “Good game.”

Isumi stares back at Waya for a moment, trying to read the focused expression in the other’s face, but he can’t get any more traction on Waya’s mental state than he could on the board, and he can feel himself flushing hot with embarrassment, and after a very few seconds he has to duck his head to hide the burn across his cheeks behind the fall of his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the board instead of to Waya as he reaches out to set his fingers atop the white pieces and draw them in towards himself. “I wasn’t playing at my best that game.”

“You didn’t let me win did you?” Waya asks, but he doesn’t sound as chipper as he usually does; there’s distraction under his tone, like he’s thinking about something else, something he can pull by force from the dark of Isumi’s bowed head.

Isumi shakes his head. His throat is tight on unfocused adrenaline; it takes him a moment to swallow it back enough to trust himself to coherent speech. “No.” He catches the white pieces between the cup of his hands and scoops them off the board to pour back into their container without lifting his head to meet Waya’s gaze. “You’re too good, you would destroy me if I didn’t play at my best.”

“Yeah,” Waya says, and he must be really distracted, to let that compliment go by without comment. Isumi lifts his head again, too flustered by the weight of Waya’s consideration to avoid meeting it, and Waya’s frowning at him, his side of the board still untouched and his forehead still tense on some unspoken thought. Isumi stares back for a moment, his heart skidding too-fast in his chest at the steady weight of Waya’s gaze; and then Waya’s frown eases, and he opens his mouth and says “You have really pretty eyes” with absolutely no kind of transition in his tone or expression.

Isumi goes perfectly still. For a moment his head is ringing with silence, his thoughts gone as quiet as his stalled-out breathing while his consciousness tries to piece together the shape of Waya’s words into something that he can make sense of in the reality he knows. There’s a rush of heat down his spine, his whole body flickering into warmth for a moment; and then he takes a breath, and time starts moving again, and he says “Sorry?” with his voice falling into the carefully polite distance he usually only adopts in formal settings.

“Your eyes are pretty,” Waya says again, still staring at Isumi as if he’s never seen him before, as if the words are born directly from the focus of his gaze. “I hadn’t noticed before. They’re almost purple in the light.” Isumi has a strong, sudden urge to duck his head, to hide from the illumination and from the heat of Waya’s stare in equal parts, but his heart is pounding and his body is frozen and his thoughts are ringing disbelief, his whole awareness stuttering on the impossibility of the conversation that is happening right now.

“They’re like your hair,” Waya says, and then he’s reaching out over the goban, his fingers catching to drag casual contact against the ends of Isumi’s hair. Isumi tenses, his body locking up on itself like it’s forgotten how to exist with the spark of Waya’s touch running through him, and Waya’s looking at his hair but Isumi’s looking at Waya’s mouth, his attention drawn unstoppably to cling to the soft curve of not-quite-a-smile at the other’s lips. “There’s all kinds of colors there when I look.”

“Oh,” Isumi says, very faintly and very carefully. “Thank you.” It’s only by biting off the last word that he can keep his voice from swinging up into a question; he chokes on the uncertainty instead, swallows it back along with the frantic hope trying to stage an invasion of his thoughts and body via trembling adrenaline. Waya’s eyes are very bright with his chin turned up towards the overhead illumination; Isumi can see flecks of gold in them, suggestions of green and even a touch of blue if he looks hard enough, but then, none of that is a surprise. Isumi’s been looking for a lot longer than the span of a single practice game.

“Yeah,” Waya says again, and then he blinks and his attention skips back from Isumi’s hair to his eyes. His lashes are dark, his mouth is soft; Isumi can’t breathe right, can feel himself going dizzy with the distraction of Waya’s face too-near and his fingers too-warm at his skin. Waya blinks slow, his thumb shifting to settle just against Isumi’s cheek; and then he rocks up onto his knees, and leans in over the goban, and Isumi shuts his eyes in instinctive surrender to what is about to happen a moment before it does. Waya’s touch at his cheek is gentle, more glancing contact than a bracing weight to hold him still, but the detail of the contact is pristine, so clear Isumi imagines he can feel the ridges of Waya’s fingerprints settling against his skin. He takes a breath, feels his chest tense on expectation, and then Waya’s mouth touches his, careful but steady, with the same self-confidence Waya always shows when he makes a move on the goban. Isumi breathes out through his nose, lets his mouth go soft against Waya’s, and Waya leans in closer for a moment, weights the friction of his mouth against Isumi’s like he’s laying a permanent mark against the soft skin. Then he pulls back, slow enough for Isumi to feel the drag at his mouth, and slides his fingers away from the other’s cheek, and by the time Isumi has opened his eyes again Waya is sitting back on his heels and staring attention at him from the other side of goban once more.

Isumi takes a breath. He can feel every beat of his heart like a drum thudding in his veins, can feel his hands starting to tremble very slightly against his knees. When he lets the breath go it fades silently, absent any of the words he doesn’t have to encompass the surreal warmth radiating out into every inch of his body.

“Did you want to do that?” Waya asks. “The way you look at me, I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Isumi blinks. “Yes,” he says, because it’s true, and because there doesn’t seem much point in dissembling when all his skin is flickering hot with private fantasies made suddenly, brightly real, like the sun coming out from behind a winter cloud. He swallows, takes a breath. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

Waya’s smile is lopsided, dimpling at the corner of his mouth and sparkling amusement into the dark of his eyes. “I pay attention,” he says, and then, casually, as he rocks back to sit on the floor and kick one leg out past the corner of the goban: “I’m always paying attention to you.”

“Oh,” Isumi says. His hands are shaking against his knees. “Waya?”

Waya looks back at his face. His gaze is steady, his eyes clear. Even as his smile eases it leaves the warmth behind, soft at his mouth and flushing unspoken self-consciousness over his cheeks. “Yeah?”

Isumi reaches out to brace his hand against the floor next to the goban and leans against the support as he reaches forward and over the half-cleared game. He can see Waya’s eyes go soft with realization just before his fingers touch the soft color of the other’s hair, can see his mouth curve on a grin as Isumi leans closer; and then he’s too close, and Waya’s turning his head up to the tug of Isumi’s fingers, and Isumi’s too busy kissing him to look anymore.


End file.
